


Twelfth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cheating, M/M, Snowballing, quite filthy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs the safe distance of knowing that John is in a relationship to have a go at him.<br/>With this I'm trying to make good for the lack of smut over the past few days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelfth

The first time it happens is after the incident with the Chinese Tong. Sherlock initially had thought that John would spent the night at Sarah's, as he had taken her home after escaping the killer squad at the Tramway, but it turns out that being nearly impaled by an arrow from an ancient Eastern catapult had slightly spoiled the mood. Sarah just longed for a hot soak and a stiff drink, and John hadn't mustered the courage to suggest they share both.

So he's back at 221 b even before Sherlock, who had to accompany Dimmock to NSY to assist with the paperwork and give an official statement.

John had poured himself a whisky and is sitting in his chair when Sherlock arrives after two am in the morning. 

“I'd thought you'd stay over at Sarah's”, he states cautiously while hanging up his coat.

“Me too. Turns out clashing with the Chinese Mafia is a massive turn off.” John grumbles, then takes a sip of his drink. “Want one?” he offers.

“Why not.” Sherlock is tired and cold and actually feels exhausted after coming down from the adrenaline high the confrontation with Colonel Shan had provided. He solely runs on artificially sweetened instant coffee form the Yards vending machine and a diminishing sense of superiority.

John hands him a tumbler, and they sit in silence in their chairs, John watching the fire, Sherlock watching John.

“Gosh, this tastes awful, what is it?” Sherlock asks after he's gulped half his drink down in one go, coughing.

“Johnny Walker. Got it at the off-licence at Baker Street tube, to drown my sorrow.”

“Cheers to that!” Sherlock toasts him, and they clink glasses.

And then, it suddenly happens. Out of the blue. John is pissed off and frustrated, and Sherlock is too tired to uphold his usual aloofness; even if they would allow themselves to think about it (later), they wouldn't be entirely sure who'd started it.

But the fact is that they are all at once all over each other, kissing – no, kissing is not the right term to describe the greedy movements of their mouths, crushing together, tongues sliding hot and wet and a bit clumsy against one another, and then they literally tear their clothes off, sending buttons flying; fabric rips, and they grope and lick and bite, rutting against each other on their living room floor like some depraved animals, all the while snogging until they nearly faint from the lack of oxygen.

It takes mere five minutes (at best) for both of them to come, and they gape at each other wide eyed as their mixed cum cools and dries on their stomachs and thighs.  


The up until now first companionable, then heated silence between them threatens to become awkward the longer they stare at each other, so they hastily entangle their limbs as soon as their brains kick into decent adult mode again.

John mumbles something apologetic before heading for the shower, while Sherlock wipes the spunk off his body with John's t-shirt. After he's cleaned up, John goes straight to his room, were he totally refuses to reflect on what just happened, until he falls asleep. He can hear Sherlock take a shower before the melancholy clangour from his violin fills the flat, and for once, John can't be arsed to go down and scold him for fiddling in the middle of the night.

They both seem to have decided to ignore what happened between them the next morning, talking about the emperor's jade pin as if they hadn't got each other off right next to were they are now having breakfast just hours before.

\-----------------------------------------------

The next time it happens after John returns from spending the night on Sarah's sofa. The flat is a mess, as an alleged gas leak had detonated the building opposite. Their living room is only partly fit for human habitation, with shards of glass littering the carpet, the windows scantily boarded up with cardboard. On top of it, Sherlock's infuriatingly terrifying brother sits in John's chair and tries to bully his sibling into taking on a case of national importance; the file ends up in John's hands as Mycroft takes his leave.

“God, Sherlock, you seriously all right?” John sounds genuinely perturbed.

“I'm fine John, I can assure you.” The bow of his violin swishes through the air, pointing at John's chest. “How about you? Any progress with … Sarah?”

“Why you want to know?” John asks suspiciously.

“Because I'm curious.” Suddenly, Sherlock is standing far too close. He's perfectly dressed in a tight dress shirt and one of his sharp suits, and he smells deliciously.

“Well, if you must know, she let me lick her pussy. God, she was wet.” John lets his eyes unashamedly roam his flatmates lean body.

Sherlock not even so much as blushes. “How did she taste?”

“Want to find out?”

“Oh, god, yes.”

And this time it's definitely Sherlock kissing him first, tasting his mouth, biting down onto his stubbly jaw. “I can smell her on you”, he whispers in a husky low voice, and John's legs give out as he stumbles back into the sofa.

He's entirely unprepared for the sight of Sherlock Holmes on his knees between his spread thighs, eagerly fumbling with the zip of John's jeans. His eyes are blown dark as he looks up at his flatmate and asks: “Did she suck you off in return?”

John is unable to answer, as all air has escaped his lungs. His cock is already hard, bobbing obscenely up and down as Sherlock starts to fist him. John just shakes his head, and then watches transfixed as Sherlock goes down on him. At first, he's just lapping over the slit, licking up dollops of pearly precome. John groans, and his hips buck up involuntarily, and finally, Sherlock closes his lovely lips around his purple glans and sucks him down his throat. It's hot and tight, and Sherlock seems to profoundly ignore his gag reflex, so it's deep as well. John's prick is engulfed in velvety heat, and it doesn't take long for him to come down Sherlock's throat when his friend starts to suck him in earnest, humming while massaging the underside of John's cock with his very talented tongue. 

Sherlock, however, doesn't swallow. Instead, he keeps John's come in his mouth, then shimmies up John's body, until he looms over his spent flatmate, who is still panting open mouthed. Sherlock locks eyes with John before slowly letting cum and saliva drip from his mouth into John's, who moans desperately, so turned on by the lewdness of their actions that he has to grab Sherlock's biceps hard to keep him close. John tastes his own cum onto his tongue, and now it's Sherlock's turn to watch as it drools from John's mouth, wetting his chin. 

Sherlock brings the long slender fingers of his right hand up to John's lips and pushes in, smearing spunk and spit all over John's cheeks and face, until he gasps “I want you to come all over my face.”

Sherlock by now is so horny he could do their coffee table. He gets up from the sofa where he'd straddled John, who deftly fumbles with his fly until successfully freeing Sherlock's cock. It's glistening wet and leaking, and this time, John takes a good long look, and simply can't resist running his tongue over the prominent veins and ridges, tasting. After that, it only takes a few determined strokes for Sherlock to shoot his load all over John's face. It pools in his eye sockets and drips from his open lips, and Sherlock can't hold back, he has to kiss and lick and sample, pushing his tongue deep into John's mouth while smearing his slick white goo frantically all over John's features with both hands.

They end up in a crouched embrace on their sofa, and it should be uneasy and strange, but it's just fine.

\----------------------------------------------

Sherlock doesn't bother to memorise the names of the next few women John dates, as he has cases on. He's vaguely aware of a young accountant with spots John chatted up in a pub (the dim light hiding her epidermic shortcomings), followed by an Ecotrophologist with a hooked nose who's his patient, suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome (thus handicapped at hand jobs; perhaps that's the reason she doesn't last long, even by John's standards).

But then John starts seeing a rather boring dark haired teacher named Jeanette, and this seems a bit more serious. John even invites her round for Christmas. She arrives early in the afternoon to help with the preparations – putting up fairy lights and mistletoe, scattering little bowls with nibbles around the flat - but then discovers that her favourite pretzel sticks are missing; 'didn't John think of them, he knew how much she liked them, and as she's allergic to almost anything else'... Sherlock tunes her wining out before he might consider strangling her with one of the awful strings of lights, but it doesn't go amiss that John seriously offers to go over to Tesco to buy her fucking snacks.

Sherlock says the first thing that comes to his mind: “Sorry, that's out of the question. I need John here to … cook the thing with the peas”, he announces magnanimously.

John gives him a look, but Jeanette only huffs in annoyance before rushing out of the door (this is the first nail to the coffin; the evening will provide loads more, until she finally departs, furious, jealous and hurt, but no one knows anything about it right now).

When they hear the front door closing, John asks: “What was that about? We don't even have chick peas in.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It does when she comes back and there's nothing on the stove.”

“Then text her to get chick peas as well, as she's already doing the shopping. I don't care. She's your responsibility. But hurry, I honestly need to fuck you over the kitchen table.”

The phone slips from John's fingers, and then Sherlock is all over him, claiming his mouth while pressing his body against the wall, pinning it in place with his own, writhing, pushing his thigh between John's, who helplessly starts to rut against Sherlock's long lean leg. They kiss and kiss while pulling and tearing at their clothes to get them out of the way – a bit more careful this time, as they'll need their attire intact for later – until Sherlock almost drags John over into the kitchen and shoves him face down onto the kitchen table. Both their trousers are already open by now, so Sherlock can unceremoniously pull John's down with his pants. They pool around his ankles, and John is too far gone to step out of them. Therefore, Sherlock can only slightly push his legs apart, thus providing a maximum of hot tight friction.

John senses Sherlock fumble with his cock behind him, and then feels the slick wet head nudging against his arsehole.

Panic wells up in John's chest. “Please, Sherlock, we need some lubricant.” 

“No time. I estimate her back in about eight minutes.”

“We.Need.Some.Lube!” John uses his best Captain Watson voice, and is rewarded with Sherlock pulling back before frantically ransacking their household supplies. After about 15 seconds Sherlock whoops victoriously, and then John feels something very cold and slippery run down his cleft and the inside of his thighs. He briefly wonders – it could be nitroglycerine or formaldehyde for all he knows - but then Sherlock pushes in, without any further preparation, and the initial pain- followed by oh so sweet pleasure - drowns out all other thoughts. 

Sherlock buggers John relentlessly, pushing in deep, brushing excruciatingly over his prostate again and again, and this stimulation – combined with the very real thrill of being discovered with Sherlock up to his balls inside John's arse by John's girlfriend – makes them both hot and dizzy all over. Then Sherlock thrusts even deeper into him as he slouches down over John's back to bite his throat hard – probably leaving a visible mark – before wrapping his right arm around John's throat, squeezing tight. John gasps for air, but Sherlock's grip is quite effectively cutting off his air supply, pressing down on his trachea, and John's vision goes fuzzy round the edges. Sherlock fucks him hard through all of this, never once loosing his erratic rhythm, until John feels on the brink of fainting, and finally comes, nearly blacking out equally due to lack of oxygen and mind-blowing bliss; Sherlock strangulating him prevents him from crying out as well, which is a welcome side effect as there's a knock on the downstairs door. Sherlock pushes in one last time, and presses his face between John's shoulder blades to stifle his own cry.

They both pant heavily two or three times, but then Sherlock gets up and quickly straightens his clothes.

“Clean up!” He orders, before running down the stairs to open the door.

John pulls his trousers up, then sloshes some cold water from the sink into his face to cool off. When Sherlock comes back up with Jeanette in tow, he's wiping the table with a dish cloth Sherlock will bin later.

There is a short sharp discussion regarding the lack of cooking, until Sherlock explains that they unfortunately ran out of chick peas. As the guests start arriving, Jeanette has been appeased by two glasses of champagne, and is rather happily chatting with Mrs. Hudson by the time Sherlock discovers Irene's phone on the mantle-piece.

Of course, this is not meanr to last. Jeanette will walk out on John before the evening is over. Sherlock will identify a woman's body as Irene Adler's. The following months will see Sherlock's reputation destroyed before he allegedly offs himself by jumping of St. Bart's roof. He'll be dead for two years, and John will grief and mourn him, until he meets someone really, really special, and it is only a small surprise that Sherlock turns up very much alive just as John proposes to Mary. As they say, old habits die hard. Instead, they carry on, regardless...


End file.
